Reese's Soliloquy
by TheBoy
Summary: [NOTE: Story is nearly complete, about 21,400 words. I plan to edit-and-upload a chapter at least once a week] 'I've been worying about nothing' he wrote. 'I was afr woried to sleep and a complete hole over something that everyone does! ' But that was a lie. Reese wrestles over feelings for his own brother (i.e. WARNING: this story contains adult sexual themes, including incest)
1. Chapter 1 - Reese Can Rite

**Disclaimer: This is fanfiction based off of the Malcolm in the Middle TV series (created by Linwood Boomer; produced by Satin City Productions, Regency Television, and FOX), and in no way am I associated with or own the series' plot-line, characters, or actors. In no way do I receive royalties, nor do I intend to profit from this fiction. The plot contained below is of my creation and in no way reflects their intents or points of view. And...um...whatever else I'm supposed to say. ^_^**

**NOTE: As of the third chapter, I've changed the title of this fic from "Reese and the Taboo" to the current title. Just an FYI, in case you weren't sure if you'd read this before because of the name change. I didn't like the previous title but couldn't think of anything better. I do like the current title, though it's a bit vague in its relevance.**

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'_I've been worying about nothing!'_ he wrote. '_I was __afr__ woried to sleep and a complete hole over something that everyone does!_ ' He thought a moment…he didn't want to actually write anything out – just acknowledge that it was over. '_Anyway, its ovar'. _There._ 'Nothing to wory about.'_

And Reese felt better. He considered writing about Jess but before it could remind him of Malcolm he changed his mind – she was a bit of a slut anyway. He started to write about a warm pudding that he wanted to try making.

Reese'd burned the first few journals. The fire was beautiful, both times. Every time, really. The second time though, the fire had somehow escaped his control, jumping to a side-hedge and through the rotting walls of the house, earning him a month of grounding. He still wasn't allowed to bake, fry, or flambé.

The punishment wasn't supposed to be crime-relevant - it wasn't because it'd been a fire or anything; a few years ago he'd learned that he was a natural cook and enjoyed it immensely, and so of course his parents found that grounding him from cooking was an effective punishment*.

Anyway, he'd been in a rush – his brothers had almost gotten a hold of it. He was surprised at his relative genius in covering the suspicion. Oh, sure, his brothers were probably still curious about what he'd been writing, but Reese had torn through the house, picking up text books, video games, dinosaurs, and G.I. Joes – yes, if he'd have to get rid of the journal, he'd get rid of some of their favorite things too! He had to wrestle them to the ground to let the garbage-can fire burn properly, but it all proved a perfect distraction. And that was one of the two rules for when you're in trouble – you need a diversion (and the little guy gets screwed**).

When the bush caught fire, Dewey started cheering. And Malcolm gloated a few hours later when he'd discovered that Reese's Grand Theft Auto III and Barbarians video-games were among the casualties.

Compared to the second, the first burning was a simple affair – burned in the barbecue with Reese the only witness. In his self-hatred and paranoia, he had to get rid of the evidence.

He remembered when he was crying in the bathroom over some cheerleader. And with Malcolm's help he'd actually gotten to kiss her***. He'd had a few other girls too, and they were nice. And he'd been hurt badly every single time of course – apparently it was unavoidable. First he'd get worked up over his crushes, and then he'd make a fool out of himself or something. Dad says it was hereditary. At least he got to watch it happen to his brothers.

Now THIS crush was just as good, just as bad, and at least as painful…but he couldn't do anything about it! He couldn't act on his feelings and he couldn't even tell anyone. He'd never felt so impotent (though he didn't know the word). He even had to be more careful about where he cried! And meanwhile, he kept waiting for that moment he'd make a fool out of himself. Again.

This journal – the third one of his now – was the only outlet he'd allow anymore. And now he'd learned to be careful with the proper nouns and pronouns. He'd learned.

Yet he couldn't shake the feeling that it'd all end badly, that he'd be found out.

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**Author's Note:**

**FIRST: I don't have a beta. I'm not even sure why people get betas - if it's considered rude to not have one, if it's for people that recognize they aren't very good at editing their own work, or what. I've edited my own mistakes and I may get a beta soon, but in the meanwhile, I promise to be especially open to constructive critical reviews.**

***SECOND: I've taken to noting the references I've made to MITM's episodes with asterisks.**  
**Episode References: *Season 2, Episode 18; **Season 5, Episode 22; ***Season 1, Episode 12**

**Don't worry; my next chapters should get a bit longer. I measured the story as currently written to having about 21,400 words, without the very end. As I mention in the summary, I have almost all of this story written; I have just to edit it.**


	2. Chapter 2 - Reese Has a Journal!

**Disclaimer: This is fanfiction based off of the Malcolm in the Middle TV series; I do not own the series' plotlines or characters, nor do I intend to make money from them. (See the first chapter for a more detailed disclaimer)**

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Several months ago, he'd been assigned the journal in his English class. Of course, Snot-nose Sammy had done the journal assignments for him, but eventually he'd gotten to reading this fiction-of-his-life and he was inspired. This thing was HIS, HIS story, HIS life. Except most of it wasn't true. His first impulse was to sit on Sammy's head and "ask" him to do a better job, but he'd realized that he'd then have to tell Sammy what to write. Duh. He might as well write it himself.

And so, in the first five weeks he'd written about four entries, a total of three pages. He was relatively satisfied. He wrote about basketball, and about some girl Katie, and about how unfair Mom was being – stuff of that nature. Sammy still wrote his assignment for him though – this journal was private.

The sixth week he was walking into the house after school, feeling content. While still in the kitchen he could hear some sit-com running on the TV. "Change the channel; WWF is on!"

"Yeah, whatever." Malcolm responded. The sit-com was still playing when Reese entered the room.

"Come on, wuss – its wrestling!"

Nothing.

"Don't you have some _homework_ to do? _Krelboyne?!"_ * He said the words homework and Krelboyne with the same venom. But as usual, Malcolm ignored him – so Reese walked behind the couch and deftly pulled out the seat cushion from underneath Malcolm.

That sorta thing was variable. Reese wouldn't win any verbal arguments with Malcolm, if only because of the "whatever" comeback, so he'd usually resort to something more physical. With armpits. And/or some breakables. Often Dewey's.

He could be quite creative sometimes.

This time, Reese was gymnastic – a grab on the couch cushion and a particular twist of the wrist fairly threw Malcolm in the air, and his body tried to spin. Malcolm cried out and flailed, and after a brief moment he found a precarious hold to keep from hitting the floor. He'd only just caught himself with his right foot on one side of the couch, his left hand on the arm, and his right hand on the foot of an adjacent folding chair. Reese thought it looked hilarious - he couldn't have planned it better. A rather pointy toy of Dewey's lay just below Malcolm's right shoulder, the folding chair was slowly sliding backwards, and Malcolm's muscles twitched as he struggled with his grip.

Reese laughed and moved to get the remote.

"Jackass! My head almost hit the edge of the chair!"

"And I almost didn't watch wrestling." Reese gave his shit-eating grin and changed the channel.

Malcolm hadn't responded. Reese looked back to see him still struggling to keep on the couch, his head poised above the wooden armrest – Reese recalled Malcolm as being ticklish.

"Move over – you're hogging the couch."

"Agh-" Malcolm replied, jerking a bit, but only succeeding in moving the chair-leg sideways.

"Which is more ticklish – your tummy or your feet?" Reese asked, leaning over Malcolm's face.

"Agh!" Malcolm said again, his face turning purple with the strain. The color really made his blue eyes and pink lips look comical. Huh – with those wide, bright eyes and the small nose and mouth, he looked kinda…girly. "Haha, pussy."

Malcolm grunted again, and finally let himself fall, but immediately swung the chair upwards – though his grip was awkward, Reese was right above him, allowing for a satisfying clang of metal-to-head! Reese flailed forward, saw stars, and in seconds they were in a full-out fight.

Typical afternoon. The sounds of Mom's car stopped the brawl abruptly, replaced with a desperate attempt to tidy. They were both caught anyway. Or at least they chose not to call her bluff. This was also typical.

That night for Reese was not typical - lying in bed, waiting for sleep, he idly recalled his earlier thought. Was Malcolm's face all that girly? His lips had looked so delicate, especially when they were pursed like earlier, and his eyes were…wide. Extremely noticeable, like a deer's. He could think of a few girls who looked more masculine.

What a weird thought. He wondered if he looked like that. He wondered if the voice in his head, dubbed "Gary Loose-Legs," would have anything to say about it. Then his mind sank to thoughts of Britney Spears, and to Jess, a girl at school. …and then he slept.

Reese woke up, put his dreams out of his head, and went about his day. For the most part, it went uneventfully. And then that night he slept again…

And woke up shaken. 3 o'clock. He'd dreamed of Malcolm! And he now remembered dreaming of Malcolm the night before. Though still shaking off sandman glue, he could recall both dreams clearly:

_ Jess was there, and he wanted to kiss her. Oh slutty Jess! But she was giggling about something he'd said. Obnoxious giggling, and now exaggeratedly so. And she seemed to be trying to keep some distance from him. The tramp. "Aww, don't tease me!" he begged. Part of him knew he was dreaming – if he could just get her to remove her clothes… And with that thought, she lifted up her shirt. "You want it?," and she rubbed herself lasciviously, her flesh jiggling and remolding about her fingers like sexy jell-o. What a stupid question. But as he approached, she kept falling back out of reach! Back from his bed; back to the doorway; back out of sight. "Come on, tease!" And he followed her._

_ But on the other side of the doorway was Malcolm, wide-eyed, lips pursed. "Pussy," Reese heard himself say, but without malice_.

He'd dreamed that the first night, and thought nothing of it. It'd only segued into some scene at school. He'd forgotten all about it. The second night was a repeat though, and kept going from there:

_ "Pussy," Reese had said, without malice._

_ "Whatever," Malcolm replied, rolling his eyes. "Dude, where are your clothes?" Reese looked down and realized he was only in his underwear._

_ And he realized, he had a choice – he could be embarrassed and move away, or he could advance on Malcolm, and try those pink lips._

He could ignore it the first time, because there was no "it". He'd seen Jess, he chased Jess, and he called Malcolm a pussy. Trouble was, the second dream…well he didn't want to think about it, but he'd considered... He had the feeling that using that word "pussy" meant something. Why would he think that with Malcolm? Whatever the reason, it upset his stomach.

For an hour he tried to go to sleep while simultaneously trying (and failing) to put Malcolm's face out of his mind. He would tell himself to stop thinking of Malcolm, stop thinking of Malcolm, stop - but of course, with every 'Malcolm,' he'd get an image of the purpling face, the pursed lips, the wide eyes.

And then when he did fell asleep, his dream-self kept bumping into Malcolm and he'd have to turn around and leave again. Two hours later he woke up feeling unrested and groggy, and made sure not to fall back asleep.

For the rest of the week Reese dreamed relatively benign dreams, but he still found himself troubled. And embarrassed. He tried to put it out of his mind – normally he was excellent at that. Bullying school losers, setting off fireworks, spitting spitballs at Jessica Miller. Often his mind would be blank when he did nothing; and if he kept himself busy, his thoughts had no chance. And when he came home, he'd pick fights, scheme, collect junk, or cook. And, last resort, he'd use the minty-mint song.** It was a nice song. Useful song.

Cooking helped especially: soufflés and cold soups and on Wednesday a laxative for Dewey. On corn night. Tickled him until he burst. Dewey didn't mind, but Mom gave him an earful when she had to clean it up. Like usual, life was about the simple things!

Only, now when he got home he'd have to see Malcolm around the house, which tended to remind him… He thought of not going home, but he needed food, and anyway, where else would he go? It's not like he had many friends.

And then when he'd get to bed, he'd inevitably imagine Malcolm's face and start worrying again.

So he did something extremely rare – he went to the computer for research. Technically, the computer was shared by all three boys, but in classical bullery, Reese and Malcolm had convinced Dewey that he didn't want to touch it. This suited Malcolm perfectly, as he used it all the time for classes, research, and a few games. Dewey would want to play simply to copy Malcolm. Reese'd discovered really quickly that he couldn't look up porn without getting caught, so he had no interest in the thing. The thing was a dinosaur anyhow – took ages to load pictures and the colors were always off.

Now he had an interest. With an hour's worth of tooth-pulling patience, he was able to use the internet to find what he wanted: a site on the meaning of dreams. The trouble was, Reese wasn't very good at sitting still or at dealing with dead-ends, but he didn't feel he had much option. So he persevered.

And at first he found something that helped a _little_. The web-page suggested that, when you dream of a person, it doesn't necessarily represent that person. 'A person can represent that person, or the characteristics you attribute to that person.' It only mildly comforted him, and he had difficulty with the words, like "attribute." He kept searching.

Then he found something better, and he released the breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding…all week, it seemed. It was something he suspected but couldn't ask: a lot of people dreamed sex dreams about their relatives. It was common. And it didn't _mean_ anything; it was just the chaos of dream! The article went on, but he stopped reading. He'd found his answer.

Usually this would be a little too nerdy for Reese, but at the moment he needed this. He didn't want to be some pervert! And where many people had sex dreams, all he'd done was call Malcolm a pussy. So he was free, right? Gary loose-legs agreed.

In his relief, Reese closed down all the windows and fished out his hidden journal.

_I've been worying about nothing!_ He wrote. _I was __afr__ woried to sleep and a complete hole over something that everyone does!_ He thought a moment…he didn't want to actually write anything out – just acknowledge that it's over. _Anyway, its ovar. _There._ Nothing to wory about._

And Reese felt better. He considered writing about Jess but before it could remind him of Malcolm he changed his mind – she was a bit of a slut anyway. He started to write about a warm pudding that he wanted to try making.

Later that night though he was in bed waiting for sleep and a thought struck him. As he recalled, the dreams had only occurred _after_ he'd thought about Malcolm's lips and eyes and such that first night. So fine, maybe the dreams didn't mean anything – but why had he, uh, noticed Malcolm in the first place?

To make things worse, he could see the silhouette of Malcolm just five feet away on the other bed with Dewey. He could see the silhouette of Malcolm's ruffled hair, his pointy shoulder, the line of his back that dipped towards his butt... Reese groaned, flopped to the other side, and tried to put it out of his head.

The next day, Reese was a mess and a repeat-insomniac come bedtime. Malcolm snored into his pillow almost within touching distance, and where Reese could normally tune it out, it now only served to remind him that he was trying to forget something. "They're cool, they're fresh, they'll clear your breath, Minty-Mints are your best friend!" he sang to himself. But it didn't help any. He was still thinking! Besides, what if he did sleep? Did he want that? He might dream that dream again.

Reese groaned once more. Perhaps he should wait… he'd write in his journal. That's what it was there for, right? He would write the thoughts out of his mind - the eyes, the lips, the "pussy" and girly...

So Reese wrote, and this time he included specifics.

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**Author's Notes:**

**Episode References: *Season 1, Episode 1 **Season 4, Episode 4**

**Also, I don't have reviews yet, so there's nothing to respond to there, but a couple people are following this story already. Thank you! That sorta thing shouldn't matter...but who am I kidding?**

**Speaking of, I feel a bit bad, as I'd basically said I'd try for at least two chapters a week. I've been out-of-town for about a week, but I still could have gotten it done if I'd really tried. Hopefully I'll get the next chapter up quickly. I've already got it half-edited.**

**Lastly, my disclaimer: The characters, events, etc., from Malcolm in the Middle are not mine, nor do I intend to make any money from them.**


	3. Chapter 3 - Reese Tries and Tries Again

**Disclaimer: This is fanfiction based off of the Malcolm in the Middle TV series; I do not own the series' plot-lines or characters, nor do I intend to make money from them. (See the first chapter for a more detailed disclaimer)**

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For the most part, the journal helped immensely. Reese wasn't used to thinking, and by relegating the worries and thoughts of Malcolm to his journal writing, he was able to go about his day like normal the rest of the time.

So throughout the week he perfected his anise pudding, bullied lunch-money from some kids for his fireworks collection, and began teasing Jess's friend Casie, this fine cheerleader with a perky rack and a promising tattoo. The bulls-eye tattoo.

And then he'd come home after school an hour before Malcolm usually finished working with his brainiac "friends," and he'd write in his journal. He'd write about how he noticed the other night how perky Malcolm's ass was, and how rosy his lips were. He wrote out his thoughts of entering the bathroom when Malcolm was showering, and pressing his body against Malcolm's in a needy kiss. He wrote about how he wondered what Malcolm would be like with a vagina. And then he'd hide the journal in the box of a board game he'd vandalized, and then bury the box under a bunch of carefully-placed junk. He could then forget about it until the next day after school. Rinse, repeat.

After about a week and a half on a Sunday when Malcolm was away with Stevie, Reese slipped into their bedroom to write in the journal. Like usual. He'd missed the day before because it wasn't a school day, but Reese'd had weird thoughts about Malcolm after watching him eat hotdogs for dinner the previous night and he wanted to get them out of his head desperately.

As he started writing though, he heard a noise – a tinkle of glass and some muffled shout – and he quickly rammed the journal beneath his mattress and jumped onto the bed.

Nothing.

Well, he was getting paranoid. What if Malcolm came in when he was writing? Malcolm couldn't read from the other side of the room…but still, it might make him suspicious. Maybe he'd search later for the journal and read it? Oh, God! If he read about…what if he showed Mom? Fuck, Reese'd even put Malcolm's _name_ in there! How dense could he be? Normally, Reese didn't think about consequences, since short of military school there was little his parents could do that was all THAT bad. The future didn't bother him. But what they'd _think_ would bother him, and this is the first time he thought they could do something worse than military school!

Reese listened more carefully for any more warning sounds, staring at his hands in horror for a few minutes… Still nothing. His teeth were clenched, his breathing labored, his hands gripping the sides of the bed. With all his courage he carefully pulled out the notebook. He felt like a monster and a rat in a cage at the same time; how is it that one of the worst things he'd ever done was with a pen and paper?!

Reese recalled some saying of Malcolm's, "the pen is better than the sword," or something. It seemed ridiculous at the time.

Solution:

Five minutes later Reese was looking into the backyard barbeque grill, all of the evidence in smoke and ash. There'd be no more of this – there couldn't be! He was just jealous of Malcolm anyhow, for being so smart and getting special treatment and everything. 'Course, Reese didn't want any of that…but it was unfair that Malcolm could be so perfect.

How his jealousy led to all those nasty perverted thoughts he didn't know - but it didn't matter. Malcolm got his attention because Malcolm got all the attention. Simple. So he'd just forget about all of it from now on. Ashes to ashes.

After burning that first journal, and only a week later, Reese convinced himself to start it up again. Try as he might, he couldn't keep the thoughts out of his head – and writing them down actually helped, kinda like a pressure valve. Every time the thoughts, images, and "voices" about Malcolm got to be too much, he'd find some alone-time to sneak out his journal and 'release' all that pent up energy onto its paper (and occasionally onto his hand, bedsheets, etc., though that sort of release didn't seem to help so much with his bad thoughts, and left him feeling more empty and ashamed). As Reese'd figured, writing it down didn't _mean_ anything. He just had to be careful to leave no evidence in his words. And he didn't have to write so often – just every now and then when the words and images in his head built up too much.

Then, with the second journal, he'd come into the room to find Dewey snooping into his stuff. Reese first tried to beat the curiosity out of Dewey, but Malcolm came in and Reese panicked. "Get out! Get out!"

"What's your problem, Reese?"

"Shut up, shut up!" And he kicked Dewey for emphasis, stopping any comments from his unfortunate brother. "I don't need you yammering and telling me what to do!" And he rushed past Malcolm out the door, picking up toys, games, and a couple text books. In moments he had it all piled on top of a garbage can, using lighter fluid and his handy matches to light the whole thing afire. He'd left out names in the journal this time, but with how creepy-brilliant Malcolm could be, Reese was sure Malcolm would find clues or something.

"Ass-face. See, this is why we can't have nice things," Malcolm quoted sardonically. He didn't seem that angry though - already read through those textbooks anyhow.

This time, Reese didn't even pretend that he could stop his thoughts. He started another journal immediately. He still lived in denial, but now he relaxed his thoughts as he wrote, allowing himself to think and worry, as long as he never said anything aloud, or let on in any way. He even wrote his feelings, though he never admitted it to himself.

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***Episode References: None. I didn't make any specific references in this chapter.**

******Author's Note: **

******First, I've changed the title of this fic from 'Reese and the Taboo' to this title. I didn't like the previous title but nothing really struck me as decent. Also, I don't know how to indent my paragraphs here. Does anyone know? Even when I use spaces, the website edits them out.**

**Second, I've received two (2) reviews. Thank you reviewers! Your reviews made me happy...happier than they should have, really. As a friend of mine says, a real artist tends to do their work for themselves, not for others. Finding out what sells, what's publishable, what's popular or accepted, that's counterproductive to that inner creative 'push'. Of course, one can't make a living off of 'creative push'... But anyway, I appreciate constructive criticism and positive comments, because I worry too much about my writing, which leads to procrastinating.  
Reviews = Motivation.**

**I'll try to get the next update up faster. My goal was originally to get the whole story up by the Chinese New Year. The celebration lasts for several weeks, but the actual day was yesterday, so I'm quite a bit behind.**


	4. Chapter 4 - Reese's Brother Knows Best

**Disclaimer: This is fanfiction based off of the Malcolm in the Middle TV series; I do not own the series' plot-lines or characters, nor do I intend to make money from them. (See the first chapter for a more detailed disclaimer)**

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Reese felt he'd found some delicate, frustrating balance in his life. He'd been writing in the third journal for some time. Only a few 'voices' commented anymore, and only in short, crude phrases. "Wink wink." "Sex!" "Pussy, eh?"* Like stereotypical construction workers watching over the inner workings of his brain. His job at the butcher's helped. Sublimation for his violent impulses and frustration.

And then the phone rang. Reese answered it. "Hello?"

"Hi Reese, it's me," his brother Francis answered. "Is Mom around?"

"Nope."

"Alright, I'll call back later. Hey, you aren't on drugs, are you Reese?"

"What? No!" Alcohol didn't count, he figured. But anyway, what's the big deal? He used to look up to Francis but now that Francis was with Piama, he wasn't sure… Francis sometimes talked like an old person, like he was trying too hard. Like he cared.

"Don't worry Reese, I won't get mad at you." His voice was calm, maddeningly patient. "Its just I know what that stuff can do, and I've heard that Mom and Dad are worried about how you've been acting lately."

"What?! What do they know?"

"I dunno. They didn't tell me – Malcolm did." Malcolm?! Reese's brain shut down a bit to avoid considering the implications. " You've been eating politely, moping in your room, and causing less trouble."  
"No I haven't!" Reese denied. "I mean, yes I have! Look, there's no problem! Stop bothering me!"

"Alright, so not drugs. Is it a girl?" Francis asked. Same matter-of-fact tone.

Reese sighed. The old Francis would _never_ have taken such notice. Now unfortunately, talking to him was almost like talking to Malcolm, only worse, since Malcolm never took a notice of anyone but himself (except enough to tell Francis about his "weird behaviors"). They were just so perceptive! They could hear all the stuff he said AND the stuff he didn't say.

On the other hand, Francis was thousands of miles away or something. Too far, at any rate. And Reese _had_ been acting funny, off and on. Just enough to get weird stares from Mom and Dad.

"Look, lets say that someone does like someone, only, they can't."

"…okay."

"And, you know. They can't like this person, cuz otherwise they'll be hated. Its not allowed, they'll get in trouble. This person will hate them back a lot. So this person doesn't know what they can do!"

"Uh huh."

"And uh," Reese felt at a loss. "Uh, and this someone figures all they can do is forget about it, only they keep getting reminders. And he keeps showing up. And I – uh, I know this someone is going crazy about _not _doing something when usually it all just blows over.

"Oh."

"So meanwhile this person is just trying to keep it secret."

"Except from me."

Reese balked. "What? No! I'm not telling you – you'll get m- uh, this person in trouble. It's not even my secret to tell!"

"Reese," came Francis's voice from the phone. "I won't get you in trouble – this is your stuff to figure out. But look, if you really want to keep your secret safe, you're gonna have to disguise your language a bit more."

Silence.

"You know. Be less obvious. Say as little as possible."

"What do you mean?"

"Don't say 'he'," Francis states clearly. And Reese just barely avoids correcting him. Francis continues, "In fact, you prolly wanna say "she;" all those "someones" sound suspicious. Look Reese, I don't know what Mom and Dad will feel about it, but I think they'll get over it. As much as Mom can be an unjust, castrating bitch, she would never, uh, discriminate. If you want, I can even feel them out for you."

"No!" Reese said desperately. "And it's not me – I told you! It's my friend! Someone I know!"

"Relax, Reese. If you don't want me to say anything, or even find anything out, I won't. You can do that all on your own time."

Reese waited silently for a moment. He thought he just outted himself to his brother – only, he knew he wasn't gay. The only guy he's ever thought about was Malcolm, and he still jacked off all the time to chicks. Should he correct him?

Well… "Why are you being so reasonable? You aren't going to use this against me, are you?"

"Trust me, Reese – I have a lot of other things I can use against you if I need to." THAT sounded like the old Francis. "Besides, I went to military school. All boys. Do you know what goes on in places like that? I learned to get over any squeamishness I had."

Reese was silent again. Then, "Thanks Francis."

"Don't mention it. And of course, I won't mention it either," Francis assured him.

Reese hung up the phone and went to go write in his journal. He had a few thoughts he'd never had before. He never thought about the word "gay" before; nor did he realize that he definitely wasn't gay, with all the women he thought of and Malcolm being the only guy; nor did he ever consider actually telling someone. It seems he's told Francis about half of it now, the much easier half – should he even consider a time when he could tell anyone else?

He wrote all these thoughts in the journal, and went back through it to make sure he'd censored any suspicious language. He was actually proud of himself – he was terrible with words, but he thought he'd kept out everything incriminating.

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***Episode References: Season 6, Episode 8. Reese mentions a voice in his head, in this episode. I'm pretty sure he's mentioned them in other episodes, and in at least one it was a "crazy" voice and not simply a homunculus for his impulses or his conscience.**

**Author's Note:**

**Short chapter, long delay. Real life intervened a bit more than usual. Anyway, I'm going to post the next chapter as well, to kind of make up for it - though it's also short. Past that, consider it likely that I will always be "late." It seems to be a pattern :-/**

**Thanks again for reading, for those that are, and I hope you continue to enjoy where it's going. I'm now having two difficulties in editing these chapters. First, again, still I don't know how to indent each paragraph here. Second, I find I have trouble deleting...phrases... It's such a newbie problem, but while I can add to my story, and change a line to make it feel better, I still can't take something away.**


	5. Chapter 5 - Reese, What's That Smell!

**Disclaimer: This is fanfiction based off of the Malcolm in the Middle TV series; I do not own the series' plot-lines or characters, nor do I intend to make money from them. (See the first chapter for a more detailed disclaimer)**

* * *

A few days later, Reese's mind was on something new. Skunks! He felt himself swell with pride as he thought of the plan. Maybe he'd let in Malcolm or Dewey in on it?

The plan had started developing sometime last year. See, around the same time every year, Reese noticed the trace smells of skunk. He never paid attention to when before, and since you'd sometimes smell skunk at any time, it'd never seemed important, but the previous night while digging through garbage he smelled them again and he just KNEW it was their season. He wasn't sure which season or why of course – maybe Malcolm would know – but he immediately recognized the potential. If he could just harness this power!

And so after eight hours that night searching the woods and the dump, he'd come home Saturday morning with three layers of black bags with air holes. He wedged the bedroom window open.

He'd only thought of the air holes on the way home.

"Oh god, what's that smell?!" Malcolm asked.

"Help!…I can't…breathe!" Stevie said, gasping as per usual. The two were huddled around the computer with four different heavy-weight books lying open. According to the book titles, they were studying fractal geometry. Now they were looking to the window with mirrored horrified expressions.

"Ha ha, very funny. Don't worry, they're sedated!" Reese assured them, poking one of the bags with his elbow. He'd used saved needles and tranqs for most of them, but a few had been clubbed, kicked, or sling-shotted. "Most of them were anyway. I think they're all asleep, anyhow. Look Malcolm, I have the best idea ever! It involves-"

"A shower! And hopefully three miles of distance! Reese, you've stunk up the whole room and you're not even inside yet. Do you know what you have to do to get that smell off?"

"You'll…get caught…for-" Stevie began, but Reese caught him off.

"Look, I'm NOT getting caught, I only stopped by to see if you wanted to join!" Weird feelings were trying to surface and they instantly made him angry. He clenched his teeth and tried not to think about it. "I'm taking the skunks to school, and releasing them in the air conditioning shafts!" From his perch on the window-sill, he swung the skunk-bag over to smash against some of Malcolm's model planes.

The bag made a furry rustle and a few squeaks, but no additional smell.

"And a few months ago you'd have helped! You'd have thought it was awesome!"

Malcolm sat there for a few moments, looking impressed. Then his face scrunched. "What are you doing?"

"What?" Reese asked wide-eyed.

"Why are you looking at Stevie? What's he got to do with the skunks? Or your unreasonable shouting?"

Reese's eyes danced spastically. "I'm not! And my shouting is ALWAYS unreasonable! Why do you have to look for smart-guy reasons for everything?! God, you are such a TOOL!"

"Reese, you're gonna wake Mom and Dad!" But Reese didn't hear him; he belatedly realized that he HAD been looking at Stevie. Since he was avoiding Malcolm's stare, Stevie was the natural choice.

"And you... ARE…staring," Stevie confirmed, looking purposefully in the opposite direction. "It's…creepy."

"Gah! Fine! I don't need your help Malcolm. Ever! You used to be so cool!" And then he stormed off hoping he hadn't let anything on. Cool? When had he ever called Malcolm cool?

Reese couldn't stop seething though, riding as furiously as he could on his bike with the bag awkwardly flung over his shoulder. He really wanted things to go back to normal. Damn Stevie! Damn Malcolm! Reese could remember a number of times in the past where they'd pranked someone together. Or even just talked, like friends. And then Malcolm would do something mean and hurtful.

Or sometimes Reese would, he supposed.

But at least Malcolm had been…around.

For the rest of the night, Reese played out his "skunk" plan without getting directly sprayed, surprisingly. Though a couple of skunks had died, he figured that'd be a bonus. Still, it hadn't been as satisfying as he'd have liked.

When he got home, Mom still shrieked about what he'd rolled in, and she'd found out he'd been gone all night. He got off with only two weeks grounding and five hours with his head in the corner. The whole time his head was there, he still seethed over that fight with Malcolm and Stevie. Normally he'd plot - either for a distraction or for revenge - but he couldn't think of anything to do except write in his journal. If only things were like they'd been before.

* * *

***Episode References: None. Although, Reese and Stevie's animosity towards each other is established in Season 2, Episode 4; and, more central to their dynamic in this fanfic, the "Stevie Vs. Reese" episode (Season 7, Episode 3).**

**Author's Note: Again, thank you for reading! Constructive criticism is greatly appreciated! So far, besides people telling me to write more (which is always nice to hear) or asking about other pairings I'd do, the only real critique I've heard is that the story is a little odd ("just a little twist of ... odd which makes it work"). I'm not sure if they were addressing the tone or the subject matter or both - whichever, part of it is intentional, but part of it...might probably be because I don't have full control of my writing. The reviewer said that it worked well (thank you!), and hopefully it continues to do so.**

**The next chapter is longer than this chapter, and even the chapter before it. The title will probably be "Reese's Cake is NO Lie." I hadn't realized until now that this fanfic would mostly be a collection of vignettes.**


	6. Chapter 6 - Reese's Cake is No Lie

**Disclaimer: This is fanfiction based off of the Malcolm in the Middle TV series; I do not own the series' plot-lines or characters, nor do I intend to make money from them. (See the first chapter for a more detailed disclaimer)**

* * *

A week later found Reese in the kitchen, feeling fidgety.

It was Saturday around noon, and although he was still grounded he had a few good reasons to feel satisfied. For one, he no longer noticed the lingering stench of skunk or tomato soup; for two, he'd written in his journal this morning, and like usual the intrusive thoughts had subsided (those about Malcolm and the ones he'd been having this week about burning the Garrison's house); and for three, Francis was coming home! He hadn't heard the details, but Francis had talked to Dad about this idea he had and that he'd be visiting in a few weeks; Dad hadn't told Mom yet, so Dad was acting particularly distracted and jumpy, which is how he always acts when he's hiding something, and Mom was still at her suspicious stage, which kept her somewhat blinded to everything but Dad's antics (and more importantly, meant she had not yet reached the 'furious' stage, which usually negatively affected the whole family).

Basically things were pretty good.

Yet Reese still felt restless, like his body itched for something his mind didn't know about.

So, Reese decided he'd bake a cake!* It'd be simple, but if he worked the glaze and the batter right…well, he was getting ahead of himself. He had the ingredients out in seconds, making a few necessary substitutions and debating with himself over the quality of eggs and cream; normally, he'd send someone out to get higher quality products, but he didn't want to bring attention to himself and be informed that "baking" was prohibited while grounded. But then normally, he'd be cooking for a REASON: in order to cook a meal for the family, to soften some bad news, and/or to introduce a sedative or laxative (and occasionally something more aggressive). Reese himself never had an interest in drugs, but the one time he got his whole family to try Ecstasy…well, he hadn't had a good time like that in months, and he'd been perfectly drug-free!

So, what should the cake be for?

Reese rummaged, collecting some obvious ingredients first. Whatever it was for, he decided, it'd be chocolate; they had a decent amount of cocoa. Nothing good, but…hold on, if he added some cayenne and cinnamon, he was sure it'd sharpen the flavor. And some vanilla for the glaze, for balance. Normal frosting was boring; he'd try for a thin coating of chocolate icing, which should form a brittle, melt-in-your mouth crust about the cake, and then he'd top that with a pattern of vanilla-flavored glaze for contrast…

Reese's attention was quickly absorbed by the details, until: "Put it in the oven for baby and me," Reese said, giving action to his words. And then he left. He'd come back several times to switch the pans around in the oven and to assemble and add the icing and glaze to the cakes when they were cool.

This meant a few hours of interrupted Saturday morning cartoons, but with the cake baking, he didn't feel nearly so restless. He could sit around lazily and protect the cake.

Malcolm came home after the cake had been frosted, but was still cooling on the counter. "What's this for?" he asked, heading into the room from the kitchen.

"I dunno. Do you want some?" Reese asked, muting his Dragonball Z. He'd been fantasizing about kicking some major Goutan ass. He didn't look up though. Not looking at Malcolm had become a habit – though, every time he didn't look at Malcolm he reminded himself of what 'looking at Malcolm' was and what 'looking at Malcolm' meant. So perhaps not a very effective habit.

It took him a while to realize Malcolm was staring at him strangely. Why was he...Shit! Since when did he ever turn off the sound to talk to one of his brothers? Since when did he offer them anything? "What?" he asked in his best 'innocent' voice.

"This isn't Mom's cooking – it smells too good. What'd you do to it?"

"Nothing!" Reese yelled. He forgot himself for a second and looked towards Malcolm before turning his attention to the cake.

"Then why would you offer it to me? What's it for?" Malcolm asked accusingly.

"Well I made it for you! Can't I make you a cake without getting yelled at?" Reese froze, shocked at his own words. Make a cake for Malcolm? Well of course that's who it was for! What the hell was he thinking? No wonder Malcolm was suspicious – and if he tasted the cake and found nothing wrong with it, he might start getting the wrong idea.

Or the right idea. Shit!

Malcolm said nothing, just turned around and headed back into the kitchen. After a moment, Reese jumped up to follow. "What are you doing?" Reese's voice squeaked.

"I'm checking for rat poison, sleeping pills, amphetamines…you know, evidence." Malcolm was already digging through the garbage cans. "Were the eggs bad? Rotten milk?"

"Don't be stupid," Reese wanted to say. "You can't get sick from bad milk if you _bake_ from it." And part of him wanted to keep Malcolm convinced that he wasn't trying to be nice to him. Part of him was panicked. A small part wanted to run or hide, or perhaps freeze until the danger blew over.

But another larger part of him became overwhelmed with anger, and an impulse to start kicking and screaming. "Why can't you trust me?! Why do you need to dig through the trash just to prove that I'm a terrible person?!" He balled up his fists.

"Well come on R-"

"Fuck you, alright? I'm not a monster," Reese heard himself say. "Don't look at me like that - stop it!" And Reese lost what little restraint he had. In his burst of rage, he cannoned into Malcolm, pushed him to the floor, and began swearing. "Fuck you! Fuck you! You don't want to eat my cake?" Malcolm, pinned just beneath him, and Reese could just imagine his face turning purple, eyes wide and lips gasping. It just made him angrier.

"You don't want to eat my cake? Too bad! It's all yours!" One of Reese's hands grabbed Malcolm's shirt before he could scramble away, while the other picked up the cake plate, and in a swift, natural movement he slammed the cake into Malcolm's face, roughly sandwiching Malcolm between linoleum and rich, sweet chocolate confections. "Fuck you! I'm not a monster!" Malcolm sputtered and scrambled behind the cake plate, but with Reese pushing him down with one hand and smashing his face to the ground with the plate by the other, he had no chance.

"Fuck you!" Reese continued, and he could hear his own voice breaking, could feel tears sliding down his cheek, and a sense of horror washed away his fury. What was he doing?! He was sitting on top of Malcolm, sobbing, having some sort of breakdown!

And as quickly as Reese's rage had started, it disappeared, replaced with cold, harsh clarity. He quickly stood up. Let go of Malcolm. Rushed out of the room. Mumbling. Shaking his head. Little voices in his head laughing at him, jeering, but that wasn't the worst…he'd had such control. Today was a GOOD day, and suddenly he'd lost it. And after he'd braced a chair against his door and buried his head into his pillow, he realized the voices were right: He was terrible. He was a monster. And he would never, ever have someone else on his side… And why should he? Even now, while wallowing in his self-pity, he was enjoying the memory of straddling about Malcolm's hips, of having Malcolm wriggle beneath him. Why shouldn't Malcolm hate him? He hated himself!

Reese considered running away – not forever, just for the evening until he felt better – but he realized that he was grounded. Besides, he was good at distracting himself. He was good at forgetting. After a couple of minutes moping, he returned the chair from the door, put on a set of headphones, and tried zoning out.

Five minutes later he crawled under the bed and made a nest amid some dirty laundry, forgotten toys, and a petrified apple core.

Eventually Reese fell asleep. Neither Malcolm nor Mom mentioned anything during dinner.

* * *

***Episode References: Season 2, Episode 18 (Reese Cooks - cited also in chapter 1).**

**Author's Note: I am continually grateful for the fact that people are reading, appreciating, and reviewing this work! It has bothered me a lot that I haven't posted in a while. Sorry for that. I've moved twice - wait, three times - since the last time I've posted; I've purchased a vehicle; I've applied to grad school after their deadline AND been accepted; and I've worked at two jobs (not at the same time, thankfully).**

**I'm still working at the second job and I have a lot on my plate, but really, posting each chapter should be easy! It's all written except the last chapter (I'm slowly figuring out how to end it), so it's just editing and my own perfectionism that's getting in the way. **

**I'll try to post the next chapter tonight. Thank you again for reading!**

**Possible title for the next chapter: "Reese objectifies a woman..."**


	7. Chapter 7 - Reese's Forceful Kiss

**Disclaimer: This is fanfiction based off of the Malcolm in the Middle TV series; I do not own the series' plot-lines or characters, nor do I intend to make money from them. (See the first chapter for a more detailed disclaimer)**

* * *

Monday morning had been generous to Reese – he'd woken up fresh and clear-headed, was first to the breakfast table for bacon and eggs, and had the opportunity to give three wedgies on the way to school. Three! And three is a lucky number – he gave each wedgie his full attention. And then, while waiting in his usual spot for the first period bell to ring, he had the perfect view of the cheerleaders mid-warmup. Jess was facing the other way, bent double in her effort to reach her toes; Casie was bending backwards, grabbing for the earth, swinging her slender legs up and over in some-or-other move that Reese found delightfully revealing. Back-flip? Back-hand-spring? Didn't matter.

Reese grinned.

Jess, well she'd snubbed Reese before, and besides which she was a slut. But Casie was dazzling. Punky, pretty, pert. And that tattoo, a scandalously clad fairy just visible above the waistband of her skirt, definitely seemed promising. Maybe it was time for a plan. Reese's grin was replaced by an uncommon frown and furrowed brow as he tried to think.

There was a gasp of air behind Reese, then, "…nice…"

"Shut your hole, Stevie. I don't need your smart mouth," Reese snapped, scowl in place.

"…view." Stevie finished.

"Where's Malcolm, anyway?" Reese asked, turning to look at Stevie.

"Got a plan on…how to meet…her?" Stevie asked, either ignoring Reese's question or still working on his prior train of thought.

Reese couldn't figure out if Stevie was trying to be smart or not, but he supposed it didn't matter. And what was he doing, asking for Malcolm? He could just as easily ask Stevie for advice – they took about as long to get to the point anyhow. Reese and Stevie didn't really get along, but they bore with each other for Malcolm's sake. He could do so now.

Anyway, there was no reason to feel threatened by Stevie.

Reese frowned at himself, and focused back on the plan. "What, meet Jess? Nah, she's a bitch anyhow. I'm gonna ask Casie out instead," he said, turning back to watch Casie do the splits. "She's got a "bull's-eye" tattoo, you know. And she's so perky! And I know that the one thing cheerleaders can't stand is NOT being paid attention to."

"Doing good…so far," Stevie commented.

"Thanks!" Reese thanked, oblivious to the sarcasm. "See, if I go over there and talk only to Jess, then eventually Casie will be begging for my attention and I can coolly say 'hey' to her and have her drooling for a date."* And it all made so much sense in his head. So, before it stopped making sense and without waiting for Stevie to respond, Reese promptly walked over to the cheerleaders.

The whole group of cheerleaders pointedly stopped mid-stretch upon his approach. A couple jocks from behind them stood up and crossed their arms. Reese felt surrounded.

"Hey, uh…" he started, and then stalled. Casie and Jess sat with their legs still out to each side, Chinese splits. "Uh…"

"Can we help you?" Casie asked, while pushing her hands behind her to further her splits in an uncomfortably suggestive movement. Reese gulped and forced his eyes away, reminding himself of his plan. He looked over to Jess.

Then he moved his eyes up to her face.

"Hi," Reese said. "Hey Jess. Ladies. I was just gonna say how great you guys are. At cheering." He shifted from one foot to the other. He felt awkward standing over them, but kept his eyes on Jess. "Really supporting the team and stuff."

Jess snorted and opened her mouth, but was interrupted by the ringing of the bell.

"-Whatever," Jess said, picking up her things. And the crowd of students all began to nonchalantly head towards their classes.

When the bell finished ringing, Reese was by himself. "Hey," he said to the air. Of course Casie had already gone.

Reese never paid attention in class – what was the point? He was stupid anyhow, and he could never get grades much higher than a D. But today, he was also distracted by his problem. He'd tried his idea, and it seemed like it was falling flat before the bell rang, only, how could he know? Should he try again? Maybe there was something else he could try?

When lunch came, Reese quickly found his way to Stevie's table and sat down. Dabne and Lloyd were there too, talking enthusiastically about numbers and letters and flapping their textbooks about, but Malcolm wasn't anywhere around.

Stevie said nothing. He was slowly eating his baby carrots.

Reese said nothing in return. He started eating his egg salad sandwich. He did not ask where Malcolm was.

He stewed.

Finally, Reese couldn't handle it anymore and slammed his fist against his backpack. "Your plan was awful!"

"What?" Stevie started. "MY…plan?"

Reese sighed, and put down his sandwich. "I don't know. I ignored her, talked to Jess about cheering, acted cool. But I don't know how to give her the opportunity to throw herself at me. …I mean, she was gone by the time I said 'hey' and they all had those football players protecting them…" He drifted off.

"Reese…you're a mor…on," Stevie opined.

"Watch it!" Reese threatened.

Stevie held up his hand, to gesture patience. "First, you need to…talk to her…alone," he said, in his usual halting manner. "And you have…to talk about things...she likes. That you like. Treat her…like a person."

Reese scoffs. "That's stupid – I don't want her to be my friend." Although Reese wasn't sure about that.

"He's right," Lloyd interjects. "You have to find something you both can relate with, so you have a place to build from."

"And what would either of you know about girls?" Reese demands, slamming the table. "When's the last time you've gone out with a girl? The last time a girl kissed you? Any of you?"

"Ah-" Dabne begins.

"_Besides_ your mother!"

"Oh."

Reese turned back to Stevie, but he was patiently eating his sandwich again. So he turned to look for Casie and found her sitting under a large oak with Jess and some Asian chick. He couldn't help smiling to himself – she was so hot! And when he looked at her, he didn't think of Malcolm at _all!_

So, something he liked that Casie also liked? Reese tried to think for the third time today. He didn't notice Casie had moved until she was almost on him.

"Anything I can help you with?" Casie asked, propping one foot on a nearby chair.

"Hey," he answered. "Uh…" Since he was sitting, he was almost face-level with her skirt. "Um."

"Yes? I saw you looking at me just now." He watched her eyelashes flutter, and her teeth worry her lower lip.

"Nice…um…" Shit! He was sounding like a complete dork! Maybe Stevie's advice - 'shared' interests "I like your body. I mean moves – your cheerleading is great."

"Yeah?" she asked.

"Yeah – its sexy. The way you move your legs and hips is so hot!" Reese could hear Stevie starting some snide, belabored comment off to the side, but ignored him. Obviously they both liked how sexy she was, so what's the problem?

"Well thank you!" She responded, smiling. She moved up closer to him and half-leaned, half-sat on the table. Slowly one leg moved to cross over the other, her foot dragging up the side of his calf before moving over.

"No problem." He smiled, invoking what he liked to call 'Confident Reese.' The result looked smug and a bit squinty-eyed.

"So?" she asked.

"What?" Suddenly Reese was confused.

"So," she said, taking his arm and helping him up. "You want to fool around?" Between sentences, her tongue was busy at work with a stick of gum, and with each chew her fashionable blonde hair would slightly bounce.

Stevie and the other two dweebs seemed miles away.

"Sure, if that's what you want," Reese replied, and smug-squint in place, he moved himself to inches in front of Casie, resting his other hand on the table behind her. "Consider me your plaything," he suggested, and he could only hope he sounded as sexy to her as he did to himself.

She leaned forward to whisper in his ear. "I knew since this morning what you were getting at." And her lips brushed against his cheek before she moved back to look at him. Waiting.

Before Reese could act either foolish or brave, a voice cut into his reverie. "Well how'd this happen?" Malcolm had asked Stevie.

The voice was distant and should have been lost amid the other fog of voices. He was so focused on her and her worrying lips just moments before but...

Malcolm?

Reese shook his head to re-address the matters at hand – and asserted his thoughts by moving his hand where it mattered. And he forced himself to think about invading her mouth with his tongue, to grind himself into her, to eventually get an unobstructed view of her fairy tattoo, just those same thoughts that were so easy before.

But even with Casie in front of him, her pouty lips parted invitingly, all Reese could see were Malcolm's lips. His pursed, purpling lips from that day they'd been wrestling and Malcolm had thrown the chair at him. It'd looked comical at the time, but now - now he imagined those delicate lips seductive – and his wide blue eyes hopeful, his thin body and tight ass wanting…

What the hell! No! He tried shaking his head again, but it wouldn't work. Now he saw Malcolm covered in chocolate cake that he desperately wanted to lick off. Even with Malcolm out of his peripheral view, the image of Malcolm invaded his mind.

"I…" he tried to explain to Casie, but gave up: "uh…later." He moved in to kiss her lightly before he made his get-away, but stopped short in his hurry to get away. "Sorry! Later."

Casie said nothing.

"Reese, what are you-" he heard from Malcolm, and Dabne or Lloyd was saying something as well, but he'd rushed out of there too quickly to hear more, into the school to hide by the door of his next class, where students wouldn't come until seconds before they had to.

Malcolm was still stuck in his mind...stupid Malcolm. Why did he have to ruin this?! But Reese knew Malcolm wouldn't want to be invading his thoughts like that, and that was the problem. It was all Reese. Perverted, screwed up Reese! As hard as he tried (hehe..."hard"), even with the hottest girl in the most inviting situation, he couldn't shake the thought of Malcolm. Before he'd been able to ignore it, sometimes venting to his journal and otherwise distracting himself like normal, but now…

Well, he realized, it was kinda like Stevie was saying. Casie was fun, kinda punky, mostly slutty, but he had trouble seeing her as a person over his lust. And it hadn't made sense until Malcolm's voice had cut in. And he'd asked himself, what would Malcolm think?

Because besides the image of Malcolm stuck in his head was his words, 'How'd this happen?' And how could Reese answer that - what answer would his brother approve of? Lust for his brother was one thing, but he wanted compassion, friendship, understanding, respect…or, or something. Basically, he wanted something more from Malcolm than he did from one of the hottest girls in school. Which just made things so much more fucked up!

No wonder he'd baked him a cake, Reese mused. Malcolm was on his mind even when he wasn't thinking. There was no way he could simply ignore this away.

* * *

***Episode References: None, BUT: Reese is actually probably right (regarding his 'plan' above, marked with the asterisk). There is a technique where one can approach a couple of women and pay more attention to one in order to get the other to feel insecure, which can then lead to the said-girl trying harder to be liked. It's one of the tips suggested by the non-fiction book: ****_The Game: Penetrating the Secret Society of Pickup Artists_****, by Neil Strauss. The only down side is that it dehumanizes the woman which devalues any potential relationship. That's an EXTREMELY big downside, in my opinion. Sorry ladies. Chances are his tips work for men too, just with some adjustments.**

**Author's Note: **

**Again, thank you for reading! This is my second chapter I'm posting today. That doesn't make up for previous delay, but hopefully it will help jump-start me into a more regular posting pattern.**

**I didn't address reviews in the last chapter, but I've had a few in the last month. Several people reviewed encouragement, for me to keep writing. That was nice. One person asked for it to be more interesting - and I can see how the fic has been relatively low-energy so far. I don't think it'll get much better before the end. I have some ideas on how I could 'fix' that, but it wouldn't fit with what I have in mind for this story. The reviewer suggested a switch to Malcolm's point-of-view. I wouldn't do that either. I think switching perspectives usually compromises a certain 'depth' with an attempt to introduce something different.**

**I'm going to think on it though - not for this story (as it's mostly done), but for future stories. **

**Overall, thank you for reviews, and remember: constructive criticism is much appreciated! **

**Possible next chapter title: Reese Dances About The Problem**


	8. Chapter 8 - Reese Can Dance If HeWantsTo

**Disclaimer: This is fanfiction based off of the Malcolm in the Middle TV series; I do not own the series' plot-lines or characters, nor do I intend to make money from them. (See the first chapter for a more detailed disclaimer)**

* * *

Reese was in an unusual mood. He got home feeling like a train wreck, but when he set down his backpack and fell into bed, his mind still raced. And not just with voices either; images of Casie and Malcolm kept chasing themselves through his head, and he had to squelch the urge to shout. His brain felt... loud.

He had to try something. The minty-mints song*. "They're cool, they're fresh," he began singing to himself. "…Minty-Mints are your best friend!" He shook his head. "…are your best friend. They're your best friend, they're your best friend…"

He couldn't clear his fucking head! Someone else had taken control of it entirely – the skipping record was actually comforting, but he felt so crazy! So crazy! "…your best friend." Wouldn't help!

No…he was worse. He was miserable. Hopeless. He wanted Malcolm's friendship and his...naughty...Anyway, he needed to do something about it, but he hadn't a clue what. It was hopeless. Reese fell into his pillow and began to quietly sob.

"Reese?" Malcolm's voice came from the doorway.

Reese ignored it. Part of him hoped Malcolm would come over and hold him, to comfort him. What a sissy! On second thought, he could pummel Malcolm on principle.

"How's Casie?" Malcolm asked.

"Shut your mouth!" Reese countered, sitting up but still facing the other way.

"Hey, it looks like you got lucky – what's your problem?"

"I didn't – I mean…of course I…" his voice hitched, and he quickly shut his mouth and tried to get control of his breath. What was he supposed to say? He was about to burst into sobs again.

But something about this situation tickled Reese's memory.

"Reese? Are you okay?" Malcolm was walking closer.

No! No he WASN'T okay! "No!" He desperately wanted Malcolm to hold him, to hug him and kiss him and tell him it'd be better. Among other things.

Reese was still facing the other way, so he didn't see Malcolm's reaction. After a few seconds though he heard a sigh. "Is there anything I can do?"

This has happened before! Malcolm caught Reese crying in the bathroom years ago (and why couldn't he have hid in the bathroom this time?), and Reese admitted that he was upset about a girl he liked, Wendy. And Malcolm had helped him learn cheerleading. He'd even gotten to hold Malcolm*.

How did that help him now though? "…I dunno," he answered eventually. Maybe Malcolm would think of something.

"Okay, well…"

Reese turned to face Malcolm, but couldn't think of anything to say.

"Reese, were you crying?"

"Good job, genius," Reese retorted, but his heart wasn't in it. He felt so vulnerable, and he knew he must look a mess after sobbing into his pillow.

"Why? Is this about Casie? I didn't realize you liked her that much!"

"Wh…uh, yeah," Reese nodded, looking down.

"Well no wonder you've been acting weird these past few weeks!"

"No I haven't, retard!" Reese responded automatically. "I –" But now he had to come up with a reason. Why would he be upset because of Casie? Something that would get him close to Malcolm again, something besides cheerleading.

"Yeah right, you do this every time. You just don't usually get this upset about it. And normally you'd have attacked me by now, so it must be serious." And Reese would have, but he couldn't get himself to look Malcolm in the eyes anymore.

At least he'd stopped crying.

"Well? What is it?" Malcolm asked, nudging Reese in the shoulder – and Reese instantly froze up, and had to will himself to relax again. "You know, you definitely picked the right girl -Casie is quite the hottie! I mean, watching her bend over during cheerleading stretches, those legs, that ass: I can totally see why you'd wanna stick yourself up in that!"

Reese didn't answer - he was too busy thinking of Malcolm doing cheerleading stretches, and-

"Reese, just tell me!" Malcolm prodded. "So I can help you."

"Why?"

"Well because…cuz I want to," and Malcolm gestured helplessly. Then he gave his typical self-torturing sigh. "Look, your cake was good. After you left, I kinda…ate it off the floor. I mean, all the parts that weren't touching the floor."

Which meant, Reese figured, that Malcolm knew it was perfectly fine. Not poisoned or anything, and not a prank. But he hadn't done anything to Reese yet, so he must not have figured out what it meant.

Still, Reese didn't say anything.

"It was really good. Sublime, even! So I'm ...sorry. And thank you."

"You're welcome," Reese mumbled.

"So what's the problem?" Malcolm asked.

"She…" Reese began, while thinking wildly. What? Not cheerleading, not sex, not mini-golf…jeez, what would he need to – "dance!"

"What?"

Reese finally looked towards Malcolm, pleadingly. "She – Casie, I mean – wants me to take her dancing. And I can't dance! I mean, not slow dance – and you know how popular she is! If I don't impress her, one of the jocks will take my place! I'm lucky she even likes me now."

"Yeah, I couldn't believe it either," Malcolm said. Reflexively Reese punched him hard in the arm.

"But you can dance, right?" Reese asked. He wasn't actually sure – he just hoped that Malcolm was as much a genius at dance as everything else. Or that at least he thought he was. And maybe Malcolm wouldn't know that Reese was pretty good himself (he'd went with his Mom for beginner dance lessons, some anniversary gift, and had the old women paying him for the pleasure of being their dance partner*).

"Well I, I mean, there was this girl, and a competition, so I took lessons," Malcolm explained. "But if I teach you to dance, we'd have to…you know."

Reese looked up again, and then down. He didn't trust himself to say anything. Malcolm could usually see through his lies, and he'd been very lucky so far.

"Reese, you can take lessons or something."

"The dance is this weekend!"

"Oh." And for a moment Malcolm got this angsty look he sometimes gets, eyebrows furrowed, teeth clenched - Mom called it 'guilt.' "Couldn't you make an excuse? Give her flowers and promise -"

"No!" Why not? What could he say? Reese's mind was racing twice as fast as usual. "No, look, you don't understand, Malcolm! This isn't about Casie and the dance. It's about... It's about..." His mind flailed a bit, even more stressed than usual as he'd turned to Malcolm in his response. "She's...I..." What? "Want. Want to."

Malcolm was looking at Reese with a creased brow. Thinking. Suspicious? "Idontwanttoendupalone!"

Wait, what?

"What?"

"I can't do it, Malcolm - I can't do it! That girl...and Wendy...I'm hopeless with girls! And Dad says -" he was hiccoughing now, and had to look away again. And he knew what he wanted to say, but it was too much the truth, too tied up with ideas of being with Malcolm. Because he'd never successfully dated before - unless you counted the chick who'd left him FOR Malcolm. Girls just didn't like him! And now, somehow, his crazy brain had jumped from the idea of having sex to having a girlfriend to 'having' his _brother_. He didn't 'get' himself either...but romantically, he knew, he was screwed.

His sputtering had quieted into quiet sobbing gasps, and then into silence. He couldn't explain without mentioning his terrible thoughts about Malcolm.

Malcolm sighed. "I get it. You don't want to end up like Craig or something. I worry about it too sometimes."

Malcolm had some pretty bad 'luck' too, but not nearly as bad as Reese's. Malcolm got Reese's girl, after all. And Malcolm had...Malcolm.

Malcolm sat with Reese a few moments more, before Malcolm decided: "Fine. This just better not take as long as it took to teach you cheerleading."

They didn't start the dance lessons then though. Malcolm said he'd give Reese time to compose himself, which Reese gladly took, as he felt emotionally exhausted. It seemed like such a dangerous and beautiful idea, being able to hold Malcolm close, having Malcolm's lips mere inches from his and whispering instructions on how Reese should better move his feet and hips…the idea made his head swim. How had he come up with this perfect idea? What kind of trouble could he get himself into?

It took more than the night to compose himself.

It seemed there'd be no lessons the next day either. Reese had made it home feeling dull but more energetic, to find Malcolm watching TV. Acting ignorant.

"I'm going to…go do my homework," Reese sighed.

"Oh." Malcolm answered. Then, "I'm sorry. I just wanted to wait a bit. Er, to prepare."

Reese shrugged. Maybe Malcolm changed his mind - it had seemed a little too good. Reese left to his room and began to trudge through his homework, writing any answer he could think of that seemed remotely plausible.

Malcolm walked in around fifteen minutes later and sat across from Reese on his bed. Reese studiously avoided looking too long at Malcolm's puckish nose, graspable hips, tantalizing ...bulge...

"Okay, we're gonna work on rhythm first." Just like that. Malcolm walks in and acts like there's no problem, just the lesson. Tutoring. Well Reese was okay with that. Malcolm talked about rhythm, foot-movement, hip-movement, body-language, basic moves, leading. His partner could wait, Malcolm had said. "The stuff I learned was showy, for competing, but the basics are about pretty much the same. I was thinking I'd teach you the basics first and we can build from that. Its all pattern recognition and balance anyhow."

And so for the next few hours, door locked against Dewey, Malcolm talked Reese into some silly maneuvers to practice the basics. Reese felt ridiculous and…cheated! This wasn't pleasant at all! He found himself growling and snapping at Malcolm, and then cutting himself off – when you yell at someone you have to look at them. Otherwise it doesn't have the same effect.

And Reese had worried about being too good, but he found that he was much worse at dancing than he thought. Apparently with old ladies, anything sturdy and young was prime dancing material – if he did have to dance with Casie he'd humiliate himself. So he swallowed his indignation and worked through it.

They'd decided to ignore the hands all-together, since they were focusing on slow dancing – but according to Malcolm, he'd then need more hip movement and to be more aware of his torso. "Look, you're all blocky, uncoordinated," Malcolm was saying. "You gotta rotate around; move your body about the foci."

"What, like spin myself in circles?"

"No! Reese, you aren't even trying! Look," Malcolm said, stepping forward in front of Reese. "You're gonna be mirroring your partner's movements, and you do that around a central point between you." And Malcolm points down to a spot directly between the two of them.

Reese happened to follow the point to Malcolm's crotch; he blushed and stepped back. "Whoa!"

"Reese, grow up; if you want to dance with her, you're gonna have to be used to having someone right in front of you." And to emphasize his point, Malcolm grabbed Reese by the shoulders and pulled him about a foot from him.

Reese froze up, but Malcolm didn't seem to notice.

"First, the first direction. Watch my shoulders." And then he swayed his shoulders up and down. "See? Just up and down. And now:" and he began tilting his chest left to right to left while swaying, so that his shoulders went in vertical circles. Forward, up, back, down while the other did the reverse. It looked simple now that he could see what was put into it, but it still looked awkward. "Right, and now the last: you move your hips. It moves you side to side, and it _flows with_ the shoulder movements."

And he began demonstrating, suddenly creating very fluid movements. "Trick is, you move first with the hips – they guide everything else, around in circles. See?"

And Reese did see; Malcolm's knees and the torso both followed the hips, taking their same movements, following reversals and rolling with an imaginary beat. But at the same time, he could see himself next to Malcolm's body, dancing, swaying, and melting into Malcolm's seductive rhythm. And Malcolm was still holding on to his shoulders. He had trouble trusting himself to even speak.

"…okay," Reese finally mumbled. And Malcolm stopped.

"Right. And then you add footwork. Blocky doesn't work, not the way you were doing it. The body has to work together, to flow. That's what I mean by circles."

Malcolm sat back down after that, and they went through the silly maneuvers for another fifteen minutes before Malcolm called it quits in favor of food. But it'd been enough for Reese; he felt satiated.

If they got to dance close together next time, he'd need to prepare, mask his 'arousal' with duct tape or something.

The next lesson came twenty-four hours later. Reese was sitting at his bed, and Malcolm still stood at the doorway, at the other end of the room. Door locked. "Alright, we're gonna have to dance together here on out. I'll lead you and show you how to put the different pieces together, and then you'll lead me."

Reese said nothing, afraid his voice would give something away.

"You _still_ wanna do this?" Malcolm asked. "Maybe you should just tell her you can't dance."

"No!" Reese exclaimed, his voice quiet yet vehement. "I still want to."

"Fine," Malcolm responded, resigned. "But you're going to have to look at me – you can't look at your feet while you dance." And so, Malcolm began to show him an amalgamation of dance moves – steps, spins, sways, twirls, flourishes, dips, and caresses. He figured that Reese wouldn't need to know Swing or the Waltz, but a little bit of everything, simplified and modified for slow dancing, would be more than enough to impress Casie.

And Reese dumbly agreed.

Malcolm also decided to add music – borrowing from Dewey's collection*. They had to find something appropriate before they started. As Malcolm explained, the best way to dance was to feel inspired to dance – to have the right partner or, in this case, the right music for inspiration.

Again Reese agreed.

And, Malcolm explained, that he could teach Reese all the steps, the names, the types of movements, and how to put the techniques together successfully…but this academic approach would be too inefficient. Because Reese was stupid (though that's not what Malcolm actually SAID, Reese knew what he meant). So instead, they would do the hands-on approach, and teach the body how to dance _instead_ of the mind.

Reese agreed. He wasn't talking very much, but so far Malcolm hadn't seemed to notice. Malcolm was steeling himself up for something. In a rather sudden move that had Reese's heart lurch, Malcolm grabbed Reese and pulled him forward, both hands on Reese's shoulders and face just inches away. Just as he'd hoped.

"I don'-"

"Come on - this is how we should be..." And the stupid forbidden part of Reese squeed with glee at hearing those words - and plummeted right back down as Malcolm finished: "...practicing. Its muscle memory - do it enough and you could be sleeping and still dancing like an expert. Just follow my moves, yeah?"

"Alright, prepare yourself - if you can," Malcolm joked. Reese didn't get it. But he snorted a bit anyway when Malcolm raised his eyebrows mockingly. Reese had kinda forgotten what it was like to be on friendly terms with Malcolm, to be joking with him and hanging out...it felt awkward now though. Everything was making him jumpy. It wasn't always this awkward, was it?

And so this time they danced together. Malcolm was just inches from him. Reese began going through the moves they'd practiced earlier, holding Malcolm's waist, listening to Malcolm's breathe, holding his own shaky breathe as he tried to move with the beat - the slow, deep-bass background-music echoing his own loud heartbeat while giving them the tempo and mood to dance with.

And then, after a couple weird looks from Malcolm, he realized: He was supposed to be leading.

Since Malcom was being the 'girl.'

Ignoring some rather distracting, inappropriate thoughts, Reese 'took the lead' - but he missed the timing a bit, and he brushed up against Malcolm, feeling his - oh crap! The duct-tape was pulling lose! Would Malcolm feel that? He pulled back a little too quickly, but Malcolm had him by the waist and kept him in line, and they simply stumbled a bit before starting up again. Occasionally Malcolm would prompt him to move his arms, in one of the few jazzy-twirls that he'd taught, but Reese wasn't so focused on that, even with Malcolm's scolding. The bumping and swaying, having Malcolm's neck and lips so close, having Malcolm's waist in his hands...he could feel the tension building. This was distinctly uncomfortable. He very-much wanted to do MORE, even with how much he still struggled with what he was being asked to do.

But somehow by the end of the night Reese was still in control of himself. And he could now dance, somewhat. Malcolm's only criticisms were that Reese seemed to space out and quiver a lot, "but I'm sure with Casie as your partner you'll be properly focused and motivated. Just try not to stare at her boobs for too long?"

Reese agreed dumbly. This experience was leaving Reese in shock. Malcolm's body, so close to him, with that music – who knew music actually MATTERED?! – and his patient, guiding touches. Plus that one time Malcolm actually grabbed Reese's ass to correct his form...

"Not that hard, is it?" Reese stifled a snort. "With one more day of practice, I think you'll be okay."

Reese wouldn't be okay. But he kept it to himself.

When it came time for sleep, Reese felt too wound up to move, let alone sleep. "One more day of practice," Malcolm had said. "One more..." At first, Reese looked forward to that practice. Very quickly though he realized what he was really looking forward to - pulling Malcolm to him, against him, sucking on his neck and his lower lip, grinding against him - he couldn't do it! Or he COULD, which was the problem. How could he put himself in that position again, where he might - well, one slip and he'd lose his secret and repulse Malcolm for sure!

The visions of that next day kept Reese from sleeping. He couldn't get the sight of Malcolm out of his head, nor the feel, nor the smell, nor the sound. He just couldn't shake an overwhelming sense of frustration. After a good deal of thought, he came up with two possible solutions: He could either jack off or cry off the frustration. He looked over at Malcolm, then buried his head in his pillow and, quietly, attempted to do both.

* * *

That Wednesday evening was Reese and Malcolm's last dance lesson. Reese avoided Malcolm all of Thursday, so that he wouldn't have to make up any explanation on why he didn't need another lesson. And Friday morning at breakfast he started an argument over who got to pour their cereal first, just to avoid any real conversation. He went to school in a hurry.

The end of the day found him stuffed in a janitorial closet, dry-heaving periodically to the stench of ammonia and vomit left over on cleaning equipment. He'd have felt like heaving anyway...the dance seemed ridiculous, the week seemed ridiculous, his plan seemed ridiculous…his plan to keep his sanity, to keep his secret… He'd been an selfish perverted idiot.

After what felt like hours of self-pity, Reese awoke to find himself cramped, grimy, and with a huge crick in his neck – at about thirty minutes 'till midnight. Good enough. He snuck off for home, improving a back-exit to avoid the dance crowd. The lights were out by the time he got home, so he went straight to bed.

"Hey!" The lights flipped on. Malcolm had waited up for him. And he was scowling.

Reese scowled back. "What do you want?"

"You didn't even go? I spent a total of eight hours walking you through awkward man-on-man moves and you didn't even use them? What the fuck?!"

Reese flinched at Malcolm's word-choice. "How do you know I didn't go? Did you follow me?"

"I didn't need to." Malcolm said. "Stevie goes to every dance – he's part of the school newspaper. Again: What the fuck? Where were you?"

"I…I was at school," trying to remain 'indignant.' "I met Casie before the dance, and she locked me in the janitor's closet."

"Then why do you look like shit?" Malcolm asked.

"No, I mean…she locked me in by myself. I tried to get to third base and she got all pissy. The slut." And he was rather proud of the lie, but he couldn't maintain a proper edge to his voice. Instead, he curled into the bed and turned away.

"Well…you owe me," Malcolm seemed put-off, though. "Like, money."

Reese didn't respond.

"I 'spose you won't need help dancing anymore," Malcolm continued.

Reese grunted.

"You need to get yourself a girlfriend so you stop acting all…weird."

Reese sighed. If only. "I'll pay you tomorrow. Now let me go to sleep." And he shifted the sheets to cover himself entirely, still dressed in his grimy school-clothes. Malcolm stood there for a minute longer before turning off the lights and following suit.

Truth was, Reese had gone to the dance, just hours before it started. He'd figure Malcolm would figure that part was true at least, when he heard what'd happen. Sewage. Backing up from every faucet, pipe, water fountain... With the dance in the cafeteria, located so close to the kitchen pipes, the 'dance' hadn't lasted fifteen minutes.

'Locked in a closet' was a good cover too...but then hiding truth with truth was always easier. And anyway, he really needed to destroy something.

Why'd he build up this lie, of wanting to go to the dance with Casie when all he could think of was Malcolm?

Reese felt unshakably like that dance: thoroughly shitty.

* * *

***Episode References (in order): Season 4, Episode 4, where Reese explains the Minty-Mint song (references in a previous chapter as well); Season 1, Episode 12, where Reese tries to "flirt" with a cheerleader named Wendy; Season 3, Episode 8, where Reese dances with old ladies for money; and Season 6, Episode 18, where Malcolm goes to Dewey for help regarding music appreciation.**

**Author's Note:**

**I've again had a significant delay before posting, but I don't really apologize this time - this chapter took a bit more 'fixing' than the others and I've been working on it semi-regularly. I'm still not entirely sure I like it. My friend hasn't read it, but she knows the main plot-points and she feels like it's not realistic enough, even considering the premise of this story. I kinda agree, but I felt I needed this to happen in my story anyhow.**

**Again, your reviews, particularly those with constructive criticism, are much appreciated. Thank you!**

**Possible next chapter title: Reese Restrains Himself**


	9. Chapter 9 - Reese vs Louis

**Disclaimer: This is fanfiction based off of the Malcolm in the Middle TV series; I do not own the series' plot-lines or characters, nor do I intend to make money from them. (See the first chapter for a more detailed disclaimer)**

* * *

Reese knew that journals were lame - but he found himself going back to his quite often.

_ Jernols are lame._ He wrote. _And this hole thing, this, EVERYTHING Sux!_

And later,

_ I think I gave up this last weak end. Its bin 3 days sense the dance and I haven don nothing. On monday i told mom I was sick and she beleeved me and even let me stay home. mebe I am sick. mebe I want this all too go a way…but I dont no how._

_ Her eyes are so prety! They suck me in and I think a bout them all the time! And her lips! And her nek and skin. I wuld hold her all day!_

_ wat am I supose to do?_

And again a few days later:

_ mom made me go to school yesterday and again today, so I took my journal. But I havent dared to take it out until now in the bath room. And I dont now wat to rite. I think if I stop talking then I wont say anyting wrong and then they wont now but I dont now what else to do so I just sleep. Mebe thats why mom made me go to school. She spouted a big rant bout it but i wasnt paing attenshun and just took my bag and left so she would shut up. The bell jus reng. I have math next but the teatcher hates me. I can wait it out._

_ I dont now whay I'm so messed up right now. I cant stop thinkin bout her. I wish I culd dance with her on more time. I wish I culd dance with her and relax like she says i am to anxeo nervus wen I dance._

The next day:

_Today im okay I gess. I went to classes. Im gonna go to Bmart and buy Best Left Dead II and then play all day wen I get home. Casie stoped me and askt me why I hadnt been talking to her anymour and I told her my grandpa died and ive been planing the funaral. She said thats im sweet. I told her I wanted to take her out this weekend but I culdnt because im too busy but I thenked her for talking._

_ Malcolm thinks I'm just sad cuz Casie so its go he saw her talk to me. We havent talked all weak. Now if he asks I can sey that we talked and she dosnt trust me but she will still see me._

_ So he wont now a thing._

_ Im still grounded. I gess I can't can only play entil mom comes home than. Mom hasnt yelled at me for days tho. She looks at me funny tho. Francis is coming so every one will be looking at him and not me. And he always makes the family happier, exept mom who somtimes yells at him and piama._

It was Friday and Reese really wasn't sure why he was so upset anymore. But he was. The dance hadn't really changed anything. And he was able to cope before the dance, right? So why not now? He figured he could live life like normal then, and his slump lifted.

Although he talked less. Argued less. Laughed less.

Reese forgot all about the video game and instead spent the afternoon throwing garbage bags into the neighbors' swimming pools. He'd spin like a discus thrower, spin, spin, and let fling the bags in arcs. Ten points, center of the pool and medium dispersal; eight points, off-center but large dispersal. The heavier the bag and the sharper its contents, the more likely it was for the bags to rip open, so by the end of the day he was filling bags full of rocks first. When Reese made it home, he'd felt better than he had for weeks, and far more productive.

He felt pretty okay - almost good, even. He sat with his brothers to watch TV.

Then: "Reese." His mom.

"In the dining room. We need to talk." She didn't yell.

That was the FIRST sign. Both Mom and Dad had been whispering in the kitchen; they must have been talking about him. When mom spoke to him from the other room, her voice carried like fact. But She Didn't Yell.

He ignored her anyhow.

"Reese!"

"Malcolm, Dewey?" Dad poked his head through the doorway. The SECOND sign: "we need to talk to your brother alone. Why don't you go play in your room?"

"But Dad-" Dewey began.

"What are we-" Malcolm began.

"Hal!" Mom's voice came in sharply from the other room, apparently to give a verbal nudge.

"Oh, all right. Go outside, boys!" But they didn't move, so he let his rant build. "You can't let the TV rot your brains- don't tell me you can't think of one interesting thing for you to do? Where's your creativity? Where's your drive? Malcolm you're supposed to be a genius, I'm sure you can think of something. Why if I was your age – Aaagh, look! You know this lecture: we need you out of the house! Okay? Here's twenty dollars to go see a movie!"

Uhoh – out of the house? That's a BIG THIRD! Reese couldn't ignore this. He quickly turned to his brothers, who were already grabbing the cash from Dad. "Guys, wait! Don't leave me alone with them!"

"Gas money?" Malcolm asked.

"Popcorn?" Dewey asked. They paid Reese little attention.

"Boys."

"No! Don't push it – and hurry up!" Mom called out.

Reese frantically thought of another tactic. "Mom, Dad, I'm sorry – you gotta believe! Whatever it is I did, I didn't mean it, I swear!"

But surreal-like, no one said a thing. Dad disappeared back into the kitchen while his brothers walked out the door, smug grins plastered across their faces. Gloating.

And Reese was left to his doom.

For a moment, Reese considered making a run for it, but he wasn't even sure what he was in trouble for.

Door closed, room empty, Reese tried one more time, "I – I swear!"

A few seconds passed.

"Reese." From the dining room. Resigned, he went to join his waiting parents.

His parents sat at opposite ends of the dinner table. A third chair had been pulled out for him. Expectantly. By the somber looks on their faces, whatever they'd found out about was big! Car bomb? Sewer 'scapade.' No, too long ago. Skunk-trap? He'd already been punished for that. Or…no, they couldn't know – could they?

They were waiting for him to sit down, and maybe to start talking. All that was missing was the overhead lamp.

Having already used up his denial, Reese quietly sat and prepared to sulk. No one said a word for a full two minutes.

His mother steepled her hands together. "Reese-"

"Well I didn't!" Reese persisted. There was some denial left in him after all! "I was framed, I swear!"

"Reese, we know something's troubling you. And it's been going on for a long time now. We already have some idea of what it is, based off our personal observations and the evidence you've left behind, but we want to give you the opportunity to tell us yourself." And now she placed her hands on the table, fingers splayed, and leaned forward beseechingly. "Will you tell us?"

"Are you taking drugs?"

"What?" Reese looked over to his dad, startled.

"Alright," his mother continued, rolling her eyes. "Then I have some idea what it is. And you have the three hours it takes your brothers to watch some R-rated horror flick. You will tell us: Now."

Reese swallowed, and he felt the room spin. Unfortunately though, he didn't pass out. He knew now that they were talking about Malcolm. But how much did they know? Did Francis tell? Or Malcolm? But then they'd ask about a girl – or a guy – or, well, maybe they suspected more than his brothers?

He realized his mouth had been hanging open, so he clamped it shut. He resolved not to speak. If they knew too much, they'd be a lot more upset than they were now.

Yet, his mom was staring at him without flinching, without moving, in zen-like patience. And his dad was fidgeting and fumbling like crazy, obviously trying to restrain himself from another outburst.

The stove-clock ticked leisurely on, patient as always.

That was all.

Not even a bird's call or a cricket – nothing dared disturb the moment, disturb his mother's hanging question. Even Dad was muted, fidgeting and wringing his hands with careful silence, and not so much as a cracking of knuckles, rustle of fingers, or audible sigh.

Which was a problem.

Whenever his parents lectured, ranted, or yelled (Mostly Mom), he'd be able to zone into his own world. Talk with his voices or watch the R-rated TV built into his head. They'd punish him regardless, so he didn't really need to attend to the lecture.

But now they weren't even speaking. They were doing nothing. Waiting. And with that, the ticking, and his fear, all he could focus on was his mother's 'hanging question.'

The silence was so loud!

Reese sat, stared at the center of the table, and waiting in torment. Minutes, minutes upon minutes...

His fingers started tapping the tabletop in rhythm with the ticking, but before the third tap Mom slapped his hand flat with her own.

And her hand stayed.

He flinched in agony, and he still couldn't escape. Can't Think! Every time he tried to think of excuses, distractions, plans of escape, his mind quickly jumps back to what she wanted him to say. What he CAN'T say!

'Malcolm.'

And all those thoughts he daren't think of, with his mom staring into his eyes. He shuddered at the idea of Mom picturing his thoughts.

And with grim, paralytic conviction, he waited them out. A full three hours passed by in a torture of silence and stillness.

Reese risked a glance at his dad, and sees tears – but there's no way his dad is as distressed as Reese. And he can't help envying his dad for being able to cry.

But he wouldn't give in. He would speak if he could, but this was too big. Too terrible.

Then, the sound of the kitchen door broke the spell, and, "We're home!" Malcolm's voice gave Reese a terrible lurch. He doesn't look. "We watched a movie with flesh-eating zombies and machete's that'll keep Dewey up for months!"

"Malcolm!" his father called out, voice strained. "Don't even joke! If you saw cannibalism and gore and decaying fingers reaching out to pry your delicious skin from its body, I don't want to hear about it. Not. One. Word!" Their dad really didn't like horror flicks, but the strain in his voice was due to more than that.*

"Is Reese still alive?" Dewey.

Mom, still looking to him, made her first move in two hours and forty-five minutes; she let go of his hand, pushed back her chair, and calmly began to roll her sleeves. "I think this was a good talk. Educational. Now you'll still be grounded for a month, and no TV-"

"But Mom!" Reese started, forgetting himself. His voice came out as rusty as Dad's.

"- But if you want to talk some more, I'll be here."

And his mom left with Dad in tow. Reese remained dumbfounded with his two brothers.

"What was that about?" Malcolm asked, pulling up a chair.

"Yeah, what happened to you? What'd they do?"

"I …I don't want to talk about it." Reese answered lamely. He still felt shaken, but he knew enough to know he couldn't risk telling even part of the truth or any believable lie.

"What?! Was it that bad? What'd you do? What'd THEY do? What'd you say?" Malcolm continued to question him, but he brushed off each query and left Malcolm to his imagination.

He'd never imagine his parents would pull something like this, but it seemed they didn't know enough to be a problem. He was shaken – and felt more alone than anything – but he figured things had ended well enough.

And he could hear Malcolm inventing crazy scenarios, his guesses for what went on ("…impersonating church figures?….drug cartel?"). That actually cheered him up a bit. He failed to notice Dewey though, who quietly mused for the rest of the night.

* * *

***Episode References: Season 6, Episode 18, obliquely, wherein Reese and Hal watch horror flicks together to bond...Hal is only pretending to like them. **

**Author's Note:**

**I've had a particularly light Sunday and realized I could throw in a chapter - or two, it turns out. That's not saying much though, as, if you remember, most of this is written and just needs some editing. Still, I'm happy it's done. Hope you like it.**

**Weather you like it or not, I would very much appreciate reviews with constructive criticism. I'm happy to see that I seem to get more 'followers' to the story every passing week. But I'm kinda writing fanfiction to 1) get myself to complete a full story without having to worry about it needing to be perfect, and 2) to get better. Can't you help me get better?**

**But anyway, thank you for reading! It's much appreciated!**

**Next chapter title: Reese Vs. Dewey (just to confirm the foreshadowing)**


	10. Chapter 10 - Reese vs Dewey

**Disclaimer: This is fanfiction based off of the Malcolm in the Middle TV series; I do not own the series' plot-lines or characters, nor do I intend to make money from them. (See the first chapter for a more detailed disclaimer)**

* * *

Later the next evening, Dewey questioned Reese. "Reese, would you make _me _a cake?" Dewey was lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, when he suddenly interrupted Reese from his "homework" – i.e. doodling land-squids with pornographic tentacles and uuziis.

"What?" Reese asked, distracted.

"A cake. You made Malcolm one."

"Sure. You like the flavor of arsenic?"

But Dewey ignored his sarcasm and continued. "You also learned to dance from him."

Reese remembered - it took him a few moments to shake those 'memories' away, to think of something other than his brother's perky ass and his grasp on his waist. Memories successfully shaken, Reese turned his attention to Dewey's question and suspiciously light tone.

"So?" Reese countered guardedly.

"And I couldn't help but notice that when you're not ignoring him, you're being nice to him. You. Being nice."

"I can be nice," Reese said, injured.

"Oh," Dewey continued, apparently changing topics. "How was the dance, anyway? Did you impress whoever?

Reese kept quiet, not trusting himself. His brain kept flashing between thoughts of holding Malcolm close and beating the voice out of Dewey.

"I mean you did go, right?"

Again quiet. He gritted his teeth. He really wanted to choose 'violence' but his brothers had long since learned how to retaliate. And if Dewey knew anything…

Then Dewey sat up straight, and squarely faced Reese. "I know."

"…No you don't." Reese denied.

"I know why you can't look Malcolm in the face; I know you why you're jealous of Stevie; I know what you wouldn't tell Mom and Dad; and I know what's in that journal you burned.

"Shit!" How?! Reese had to restrain himself. Through clenched teeth he threatened his brother. "Dewey, if you open your mouth I swear-"

"Yeah," Dewey interrupted, "but if you even touch me then I'll open my mouth."

Reese clenched and unclenched his fists, and closed his eyes, hoping to get rid of the whole problem. But no; Dewey was still there, smirking slightly.

Reese sighed. "What do you want?" he offered.

"Aw, what makes you think I want something? I'm only looking out for you, making sure you don't get hurt or in trouble! Er…more trouble. I dunno what you're gonna tell Mom and Dad."

"I'm not gonna say nothing! What's wrong with you?"

"Well it's not going to go away."

"Fuck You!"

"Reese," Dewey stood up. "I'm here for you. If you need to vent, or you need support when you tell-"

"Fuck you!" Reese repeated. He couldn't believe where this conversation was going!

"I love you Reese. I'm here for you." And Dewey wrapped his arms around him with a tight hug – leaving Reese speechless. In shock. Reality clearly had left town a while ago. "I mean, you know, not the same way you love Malcolm, Dewey confirmed.

And for a second, Reese felt a choice: to trust Dewey and accept his offer, or – and his gut helped him decide – to push him away. Aggressively.

Dewey landed harmlessly on the bed, just blinked at him.

"Fuck you," Reese said once again. His throat felt tight though.

"Well, I really could do with some cake," Dewey suggested. And, after a moment's hesitation, Reese gave a relieved nod. Yes, cake he could do. Blackmail he could handle. He made his way to the kitchen.

This Dewey he could understand. Dewey 'knew,' but he could punish Dewey, but if he punished Dewey than Dewey had no reason to keep quiet; as long as Dewey's requests were simple, then Reese wouldn't even complain. It was worth it.

Reese went about the next few hours preparing a rather standard cake – sans-arsenic.

* * *

***Episode References: None, directly. But I'd like to remind you that Dewey IS quite intelligent, which I think is best shown in Season 5, Episode 18 (Malcolm helps Dewey 'fail' an IQ test).**

**Author's Note:**

**...Okay, I was impressed with getting two chapters out again on the same day, but this one is particularly small. Still, I like it - hope you do too. Thank you for reading and, for those that leave reviews, DOUBLE-thank you!**

**Aren't I generous?**

**The next chapter, like the 'dance' chapter from before, requires a bit more editing than most other chapters...hopefully the wait won't be too long.**

**Possible next chapter title: Reese's Big Brother to the Rescue!**


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